


Getting Him Home

by Enclave



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Autistic Keith (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Polyamory, Sick Keith (Voltron), Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 13:12:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15582738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enclave/pseuds/Enclave
Summary: Keith comes down with the flu in the airport on the way back from an aerobatics demonstration with Lance. It's up to Lance to make sure he gets home alright.





	Getting Him Home

**Author's Note:**

> hey what up I forgot I wrote incredibly self-indulgent shklance whump on a camping trip last month so here it is
> 
> This is an AU where Keith is an aerobatics pilot who demonstrates hypermaneuverable aircraft for an aircraft/spacecraft manufacturer. Lance works for the same company and is his co-pilot, and the five paladins are all living together in a house. This is established Shiro/Keith/Lance (yes Shiro shows up don't worry).
> 
> If you're IN ANY WAY EMETOPHOBIC please save yourself and pick a different fic, the back button is right up there. No major triggers otherwise, but don't say I didn't warn you about the puke.

Lance and Keith were on their way back from the aerobatics demonstration, which of course Keith had nailed as he always did, when Keith plucked at Lance's sleeve to get his attention. "Lance."

Lance was lost in thought, half trying to find their gate number on his ticket again as the crowds of travelers streamed around them, half thinking about the cute little smile Keith always wore when he flew. Keith's happiness was a secret, hidden thing. He was often happy, but was scrupulously careful about keeping expressions of joy off his face. Lance knew why: if Keith showed what made him happy, then he became vulnerable to someone maliciously taking it away. Shiro was trying to teach him to let his joy out more -- not necessarily by smiling, which Keith claimed felt unnatural due to his autism, but through verbal statements or stimming. So far, he hadn't been particularly successful.

But when he was flying a plane, Keith was in his element more than he ever was on solid ground. Lance was always overjoyed when he had the opportunity to co-pilot or be Keith's passenger in order to film his performance because invariably he would get to see the tiny, adorable one-sided smirk Keith couldn't suppress while he was flying. 

Also, sometimes on the way out of the plane Keith would say something nonsensical and heartwarming like "I felt it that time."

"Felt what?" Lance had asked, shaking out his helmet hair.

"The... the feeling that's the reason I fly."

Keith had had such an expression of unadulterated bliss in his eyes (though not on his face) that Lance hadn't even --

_ "Lance,"  _ Keith said again, and Lance shook himself out of his reverie.

"What?" he asked, a little annoyed.

"I need to throw up."

This threw Lance completely for a loop. He shoved his ticket back into his pocket and turned around to look at Keith. Keith looked... well, maybe a hair pale, but otherwise perfectly fine, standing there impassively as Lance gave him the ol' once-over. "What do you mean, you need to throw up?"

"Find me a bathroom. Empty." 

Keith's voice was completely inflectionless, and it was hard to tell how serious he was or if he was even serious at all. Lance didn't think this was one of his weird Keith-jokes, but then again, if he was going to vomit why wasn't he displaying a little more urgency about it?

Then he caught himself: Keith would never display urgency in public, about anything. He had all of his bodily functions down to a science so no stranger would ever have to know he was human. He stifled his sneezes into silence without using his hands, never napped in public, and when falling asleep in Lance's or Shiro's bed, had admitted to Lance that his routine was to lie down and simply hold perfectly still, slowly counting down from five hundred (sometimes more than once), until he was unconscious because he couldn't bring himself to toss and turn in front of either of them. He rarely slept deeply enough to move in the night, either. Keith would never mention when he was going to the bathroom, or even doing something as mundane as brushing his teeth. It was like he wanted really badly for everyone to think he was secretly an android.

In light of all that, Lance was pretty sure that, despite his nonchalant demeanor and weird phrasing, Keith was probably going to actually vomit sometime in the next five or ten minutes.

"Okay, shit. Come on." They were right near a men's bathroom, so Lance caught Keith by the arm and pulled him inside.

But once they were inside, facing the row of stalls, Keith whispered, "I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't? Come on, we have to --"

"Can't throw up here. Too many people." Then he actually lost his composure, just a tiny bit, for a second. He passed his hand over his mouth, closed his eyes, and swallowed once. When he opened his eyes again it was as though nothing had happened.

Lance knew, though, that for Keith that kind of display was the equivalent of an audible dry heave.

"That's not how this works!" he hissed back. "You're about to puke, so do it here! I don't want you to get sick in the middle of --"

A guy exiting one of the stalls gave the two of them a weird look, and that was it. Keith was walking quickly back out the door.

Lance could only follow Keith, now noticeably pale, through a tangle of hallways, giving nervous glances between Keith and every trash can or public bathroom they passed. They dove through a thicket of duty-free shops as Keith plunged on in what seemed to be a random direction. "Keith. Keith! Babe! Where are you even going?"

He didn't answer, probably because he couldn't. Keith had a fucking unbelievable poker face, but he couldn't hide the bobbing of his adam's apple as he convulsively swallowed. 

Just when Lance was about to catch up to Keith, tackle him to the floor, and  _ force _ him into one of the public bathrooms whether he liked it or not because he was sure Keith couldn't possibly hold it back any longer no matter how hard he tried to be a paragon of control over his body, Keith ducked into an empty single-stall family bathroom Lance hadn't even noticed.

Lance followed him inside, shutting the door behind himself, just fast enough to see Keith calmly, but quickly, walk up to the toilet, fall to his knees, and, in almost perfect silence, vomit. Copiously. Lance could only wince in mute sympathy. Somehow, because he was Keith, he didn't get a single drop in his hair.

"Jesus, Keith. Are you sick?" It was a stupid question; Keith had a stomach of steel and of course, being an aerobatics pilot, never got motion-sick. He couldn't answer, anyway, because he was vomiting again. Still silently. The only sounds were the quiet splatter of his puke hitting the water, and one muffled cough following each heave.

Lance tentatively put his hand on Keith's upper back, but Keith batted him away, croaking out "Don't," between heaves.

"Alright, sorry." Wanting to make himself useful, Lance wet a handful of paper towels in the sink. Keith stopped heaving and sat back up, and Lance handed them to him wordlessly. He swiped across his forehead, then wiped his mouth. "Are you okay? I mean, what was that?"

"I'm fine. Getting sick, I guess. We need to get to our gate," Keith said, hoarse from puking. He stood up and made for the door. Lance was left hurrying after him again. He knew Keith needed to feel composed and in control, but really, this was ridiculous.

"Keith. Keith! Hold your fucking horses!" Lance grabbed Keith's arm, physically restraining him from going to the gate. "Do you want water? Wanna rinse your mouth out? Do we need to delay the flight? Cause if you're not feeling good, I can do that. Delay the flight, I mean. Shiro will understand."

Keith stopped to listen to Lance's tirade, then held out a hand. "Water."

Lance handed over his water bottle and Keith took a few sips, his perfect poker face back in place. "Now I wanna go home," he said. "So let's go to the gate. It's 72," he added, having somehow memorized the number while Lance had been busy being frazzled and chasing a sick Keith all over the airport.

"Let me..." Lance drew up to him, oblivious to the crowds of people around them, and laid a hand gently across his forehead. It was damp -- he was sweating, his dark hair sticking to his face -- and hot, but not worryingly so. Lance chewed his lip. "Okay, we can go wait for the plane. But if you feel sick again, you need to tell me, alright? Not when you're about to puke. When you first start to feel nauseous."

"Got it."

"And you know you don't have to hide it from me. Right? You can --"

"Lance." Keith took Lance's hand in both of his. "I got it. Really. But can you please... just help me get home?" His voice cracked, but this time instead of sounding hoarse he sounded like he was on the verge of tears.

"Right. Of course. It's alright; I'm gonna get you home before you know it," he said, trying to sound more optimistic than concerned. "Let's go."

* * *

 

They had a brief respite when they reached the gate. Lance set his backpack down and took Keith's, settling him on one of the uncomfortable benches to wait. He had him drink a little more water, then sat down next to him. Keith leaned against Lance and let Lance pet his hair, burrowing into his side.

"Hey, Keith."

"Mm?"

"How did you do that?"

"Do that?"

"I mean, hold it back like that."

Keith shrugged. "I just... I can't..." He scrunched his face up, thinking. "I can't let anyone see me... like that. So I just... don't. Can't you...?"

"No, most people just... puke. It's kinda like fainting. You can't really fight it."

"You can fight fainting by tensing your core muscles, forcing blood back to your brain via hydrostatic pressure." He paused. "I've done it. It's not... it doesn't feel very good."

"Jesus."

"Why Jesus?"

"Just... most people won't put themselves through all that not to look weak. And nobody would think you're weak for puking, anyway. It happens to everyone. Most people can't stop it even if they tried. Plus, we're probably never going to see these people again, so even if you puked --"

"Can you please stop saying that word?" 

"Okay, sorry."

"And it's not... I know you don't think it makes me weak, but... It's hard enough to be vulnerable like that, out of control, in front of you. I can't... I can't do it in front of strangers. My body won't let me." He shook his head a little, as if to ward off the very thought. "I'm afraid of making a mess, or... I don't know... panicking. Crying. I'm afraid if... if people saw me sick, they'd realize I'm bad." His voice trembled as he finished the sentence, and he drew in a long, shaking breath.

"Aw, Keith... I didn't know it was like that." Lance had picked up before that Keith, deep down, believed he was a fundamentally, irredeemably terrible person. It was the result of abuse he had suffered from foster parents in childhood, and he was still afraid that if he somehow slipped up or did the wrong thing, even if that was something as simple as being sick or visibly autistic, the people around him would figure him out, realize that he was Bad with a capital B, and leave him. Lance took every possible opportunity to dispel this idea, but it was hard because Keith's fear was so formless and all-encompassing. Lance could help, but Keith, ultimately had to be the one to fight it, and some days this went better than others. "You're gonna be okay, though. I... I know you, and how I think of you won't change no matter what happens today. You have a free pass." Keith seemed about to protest, so Lance barreled on: "Soon we'll be home, and Shiro will be there to take care of you..."

Lance tried to distract Keith with silly stories about what stupid movies they'd watch when they got back to the apartment. It was too easy, really; Keith took every suggestion seriously and huffed in anger and amusement when Lance started really digging deep with  _ Space Jam _ and  _ Ruggie's Bump.  _ Too soon, though, they were being called to board. Lance carried both their backpacks onto the plane; Keith, uncharacteristically, didn't complain about this, settling himself into the window seat and gazing out across the tarmac distractedly. When the plane taxied to the runway and lifted off, Keith took Lance's hand, and Lance couldn't help smiling at him as he stroked his thumb over the back of his hand soothingly. For some reason, even though he flew corkscrews and barrel rolls and flips and all sorts of death-defying stunts with Keith, flying commercial still made Lance nervous. Somehow, even though Keith should have been the weak one, the scared one, he was comforting Lance, telling Lance (without words) that everything would be alright. In the grand scheme of things, it was a problem that Keith would almost never accept help and only felt comfortable giving it, but on the other hand, it was  _ really _ sweet.

Lance tried not to crush Keith's hand as they ascended to cruising altitude, but he was pretty sure he failed.

When he finally let go of Keith and the seatbelt sign turned off, Keith pushed past Lance out into the aisle and disappeared for about five minutes. Lance almost didn't think anything of it, except that he noted that as Keith climbed back over him into his own seat, he was sheened with sweat.

"Dude! Did you puke again?" 

"...Yes."

"I told you to tell me if you weren't feeling well!"

"Lance, I --"

"Keith, you're kind of scaring me, okay?" He backed up. Sometimes when Keith seemed like he was being incorrigible, he actually, genuinely didn't understand something Lance took for granted. "You're throwing up, and I think you're running a fever. That means you're really sick. But you're not letting on how you feel, so I don't know  _ how _ sick. And I'm scared you could get a lot worse and I wouldn't know. What if it's appendicitis or something?"

"It's not. I'm not in pain. Anyway, people over age eighteen rarely get appendicitis." Lance started to protest that shitty response, but Keith continued, "I'll tell you if it's really bad, okay? I think it's just the stomach flu. I'll be fine by tomorrow."

"Okay." Lance blew out a deep breath. "Okay. Sorry."

"It's alright." Keith matter-of-factly leaned his head on Lance's shoulder and closed his eyes.

* * *

 

The respite did not last. Keith woke up again another two hours into the flight, inadvertently rousing Lance in the process, and within thirty seconds stated, "I need to throw up again."

"Um..." Lance looked both ways down the aisle. "Shit. Both the bathrooms are taken."

"I'll wait," Keith said. He sounded completely unperturbed. Only someone who knew Keith really well, as well as Lance did, could have detected how his eyebrows furrowed just slightly, how the corners of his mouth turned down in perturbation.

"It's alright. Here, you don't have to." He pulled Keith's sick bag out of the pocket on the back of the seat in front of him.

"No," Keith said. 

"Keith, it's going to happen whether you want it to or not."

"No, it won't."

"You can't hold it back forever. Nobody's gonna see. I won't let them see around me." Keith still hadn't taken the bag; Lance shook it emphatically. "Take it. Keith, don't do this to yourself. Please."

He took it.

And proceeded to hold it in one hand, breathing steadily through his nose. He occasionally closed his eyes and swallowed, once going so far as to press the back of one hand to his mouth, until Lance said, grudgingly, "Front one's open." This was ridiculous. Lance would have puked all over himself by now.

Lance scooted out into the aisle so Keith could get out. He walked -  _ walked  _ \- to the restroom, Lance following behind him. When he realized Lance was coming, he shot him a wordless glare. "I'm just making sure you don't die, okay?"

Keith didn't respond, but shoved open the bathroom door, dropping to his knees in front of the tiny toilet. Lance squeezed in behind him and locked the door. Keith's shoulders and back contracted with a hard retch. Unfortunately, Keith seemed to have very little left in his stomach to vomit. He dry heaved hard -- it looked painful, and Keith couldn't stifle the hacking cough he let out at the end of each retch -- for around five minutes, until he was trembling like the last autumn leaf, before he brought up a gush of what looked unpleasantly like pure bile and water.

He let Lance rub his back and hold his hair back this time as he threw up water for around ten minutes straight. When he finally finished, nothing could disguise his exhaustion. He was trembling, panting shallowly through his mouth.

Lance helped him up and held him upright with a hand around his waist. Keith pressed against Lance's side for warmth and, he hoped, comfort, as he wiped off his mouth with a damp paper towel. "Feeling any better?"

"Kinda," Keith said in a tiny voice, almost inaudible over the roar of the plane. Lance pressed his lips together.  If the vomiting went on much longer, Keith would start getting dehydrated, and then he would  _ really _ feel like shit. He couldn't wait to be home where he and Shiro could wrap Keith up in blankets and plant him on the couch where he belonged with a trash can and a bottle of Gatorade.

"Doesn't it make you feel worse when you swallow it back?"

Keith shrugged. "I guess."

The two walked back to their seats, Keith refusing any help once the bathroom door was open. Once they were seated Keith rested his head on Lance's shoulder, and Lance ran his fingers through his hair until, miraculously, he fell asleep again and stayed out for the rest of the flight.

* * *

 

Shiro, the angel, had agreed to pick them up at the airport so they wouldn't have to take a cab home, and Lance had never been more grateful to have him around. Keith insisted on carrying his own bag off the airplane, but he was still looking tired and shaky, despite the fact that Lance had managed to get a few sips of water into him while they had been waiting to deplane. However, his face lit up (not quite into a smile, but close) when he saw Shiro, and Keith jogged up to him and embraced him. Shiro surreptitiously took Keith's bag from him as he pressed a kiss to the top of Keith's head. "I missed you!"

He shifted over to Lance, kissing his cheek lightly, Keith still holding his free hand as he shouldered Keith's backpack. "And you."

"Great to see you, Shiro," Lance said, his smile a little forced. Then he pulled Shiro closer and lowered his voice. "Listen, Keith's really sick. He's been puking."

"Oh, shit," Shiro said. "He doesn't deal with that well."

"Yeah, I've _noticed_!"

"Okay. How about you go get your luggage while I watch him? Then we just need to get out to the car and drive home."

"Got it." Lance saluted, which made Shiro laugh, and ran off. Shiro turned back towards Keith. "Come on, let's sit. Lance said he'd get the bags. He told me you're not feeling well?"

"I'm fine." Keith paused. "I'm sick but I'm fine. But the show was  _ great.  _ I wish you had seen it. I flew the new 8600, and..." 

When Lance returned with their bags, Keith was still describing the show to Shiro, and he kept it up for about half the walk to the car before falling quiet again. Shiro and Lance exchanged a look. His focus on the show was a pretty blatant attempt to mask his discomfort and distract the two of them from it, but silence was a worse sign, even if Keith still  _ looked  _ fine. Lance had learned in the past couple of hours that Keith went from "fine" to "throwing up his guts"  in about five seconds flat, because he was just a zero-to-one-hundred kind of guy. "Fine" could never really be trusted, with Keith.

They packed their bags and piled into the car, Keith in the front seat with Shiro, who took a moment before they set off to feel Keith's forehead. "You feel kinda warm, hon."

"No, 'm cold."

Shiro frowned and turned the heat on, though the car felt comfortable enough to Lance. His fever was probably getting worse. "Just relax, okay? We'll be home soon and you can rest."

"Mn."

Keith watched the road fixedly as the three of them drove home. The sun was setting behind the trees, and the orange light suffused the car. They were out of the woods, Lance thought. Keith was sick but as soon as they were home, they could properly take his temperature, and send Hunk and Pidge out to the 24-hour drugstore for whatever one was supposed to give one's boyfriend who has the stomach flu, and Lance and Shiro would sandwich Keith on the couch and make sure he felt okay and loved even though he was sick.

They pulled into their parking spot at the apartment complex, and Shiro got out of the driver's side to help Keith out. As he got out of the car, there was a soft noise from Keith's side of the car, a single muffled cough, which Lance assumed was nothing. When Shiro got around to Keith's side, the door was halfway open, and Keith was turned around towards the half-open door, one hand cupped over his mouth, looking down at himself with wide eyes, and he had just thrown up all over himself.

"Aw,  _ shit _ ," Lance murmured, because this... this was probably Keith's worst case scenario for the day. Right in front of Shiro, too, who Keith idolized more than anyone.

"Oh, babe..." Shiro said sympathetically, and that was when they both noticed that Keith was silently crying, his shoulders shaking with it. He was almost expressionless as usual, tears streaming from his eyes though his face was otherwise blank, but the look in his eyes was a heartbreaking mixture of shame, horror, and revulsion. Before he could say anything he bent forward and vomited again, onto the pavement this time. "You're doing great. It's okay, Keith. Let it out."

"Sh--" Keith was cut off by another heave. "Shiro--" He sounded close to panic. He was reaching for Shiro helplessly with both hands, and he looked like he was about two seconds away from a serious meltdown.

"Alright, don't worry, you're okay; we're just gonna..." Thinking much faster than Lance, who was still frozen in place with sympathetic horror, Shiro scooped Keith up bridal style. "Lance, can you get the bags? I'm gonna get him up to the apartment." Keith was audibly crying now, totally losing it into Shiro's shirt. How he had enough fluid left in his body to cry, much less vomit as much as he just had, was anyone's guess.

"Of course! Go, go!"

Shiro rushed Keith upstairs. Vomit was soaking into his shirt, but he was so worried about Keith he barely noticed it. There were three flights of stairs to climb to get up to their floor. He spent the entire climb thanking his lucky stars he did his squats three times a week. Keith seemed pretty damn out of it -- Shiro was pretty sure that, besides being sick, he was shutting down from the exhaustion trying to hold it together all day on the plane -- and was mostly sniffling into Shiro's shirt and shaking, not responding when Shiro asked him if anything hurt and if he still felt sick. At some point, belatedly answering one of Shiro's questions, he started heaving and Shiro set him down on the stairs, down which he promptly vomited again.

Somehow they made it into the apartment. Shiro went directly to the bathroom and started stripping both of them down without passing Go or collecting 200 dollars. It didn't take long for Hunk and Pidge to show up at the bathroom door.

"Hey, Shiro, buddy, what's -- aw, shit," Hunk said, taking stock of half-naked, sweaty, panting Shiro and half-naked, sweaty, crying Keith seated on the edge of the bathtub in front of him, both of whom were splattered with puke. "That looks... bad."

"Yeah, I know," Shiro said. "Keith's pretty sick, and --" Keith cut in with a half-coherent apology. "Hey, no, don't say that," Shiro said, turning his attention back to him. "You didn't do anything wrong. You're okay now. We're gonna take care of you." Shiro rubbed one of Keith's shoulders. "Could you possibly go get us some nausea stuff and Gatorade from the --" 

"Yeah, yeah, of course, say no more. Hey, Keith, hope you feel better soon, man."

"Yeah, Keith, feel better!" Pidge added.

Keith was way too out of it to respond, so Shiro called, "Thanks so much, guys," after them as they left.

"You can repay us by being on our lasertag tournament team next week!" Pidge yelled back to him. 

Lance burst into the apartment a minute later. Shiro had wrangled the both of them into a warm shower. Keith had cried himself out and was draped over Shiro's front, shivering slightly and being completely unhelpful as Shiro tried to soap both of them up enough to get the vomit smell off.

"Shiro?"

"In here."

There was the thump of Keith and Lance's overnight bags being dropped in the foyer, and Lance burst into the bathroom, nudging the shower curtain back without even asking. He exhaled when he saw that Keith was alright. He was glassy-eyed, not focused on anything, and clearly deep in the Keith world he retreated to when he was scared, but at least he was conscious and safe. "He okay?"

"Yeah, I mean..." Shiro shrugged. "He's not all there right now, but he'll be alright. We're almost done in here."

"Good," Lance nodded. "Need anything?"

"Get the bed set up with a trash can just in case? We can all sleep in my room tonight." Shiro had the master bedroom with the queen bed, so trio sleepovers always took place in his room.

Lance went to put a bottle of water and a trash can by the bed. He heard the shower shutting off, and Keith quietly saying a few words to Shiro from the bathroom. That was a good sign. Keith was unlikely to completely come out of a shut down this soon, but it was always easier if he could communicate at least a little.

Shiro came to the door of the bedroom carrying Keith, who was clinging to his front, and set him down in the bed. "Thanks, Lance."

Keith burrowed under the covers and closed his eyes.

"I checked his temp a minute ago," Shiro continued. "He's at around 102."

"Fuck." Lance pressed his hands into his eyes. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let it get that bad. I told him we could reschedule the flight and stay in a hotel or something until he felt better, but he --"

"Lance, it's fine." Shiro had come up in front of him, and now pulled Lance in,  hugging him, running a hand down his back. "I know he's a stubborn little bastard. You  _ both _ did fine. You're both home and you're both okay. That's all that matters to me."

"But I should have --"

"Shhh," Shiro said. "You need sleep. It's late."

"But he's --"

"The fever will come down with rest. If he's not feeling any better tomorrow I'll take him to the walk-in clinic."

Shiro pressed him into bed on one side of Keith, and Lance finally gave in and let Shiro tuck him in, smoothing back his hair with one hand. Exhaustion hit Lance like a freight train. This horrible fucking day was finally over, and Keith was still here, lying with him, maybe a little traumatized by the... incident... in the car, and probably dehydrated and definitely feverish, but otherwise okay. 

Shiro crawled in next to Keith on the other side, so Keith was sandwiched between his two boyfriends. He opened his eyes to look blearily at Lance.

"You alright?"

"Okay now," Keith murmured. "Thanks for getting me home."

And he gave Lance a tiny smile, the best gift Lance could imagine.


End file.
